


A Little Bit Human, Maybe

by DedreaJay



Series: Hannibal Notebook and Scattered Thoughts Storehouse [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, alana gets MAD, frederick doesn't like it when you have feelings at him, momentary woobie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DedreaJay/pseuds/DedreaJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pushed to her limit in the run up to Will Graham's trial, Dr Alana Bloom lays into Dr Chilton with everything she thinks of him.  His response is (mostly) surprising.</p><p>"Teen" rating is for language, only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit Human, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> A one-off character piece I wrote maybe a year ago, to try and 'practice' writing in their respective character styles. Also establishes some of my head-canon for both characters and their 'internal' lives. The first 'entry' of my 'Hannibal Notebook' (which is really just a way of organizing things for my own sake). Was kind of intended to be the start of a ship thing, but it never really came together? 
> 
> Also Chilton feels, because HI LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF
> 
> p.s. yo tagging system, how come Alana doesn't get to be 'Dr'? I mean, I don't think Hannibal does either, but...what gives.

The meeting had ground to a halt. Alana Bloom couldn’t remember now what made her think there would be anything productive in meeting with Dr Chilton.  Frederick had Will Graham *and* Abel Gideon in his little human zoo, and in his mind that made him The Victor and her…well he was apparently willing to grant her a participation award.

As long as she’d pretend it was generous.

That’s probably what made her snap.  She could feel the gall rising in her throat as he bloviated on about subjectivity and ‘cognitive dissonance’, and that condescending chestnut about how ‘one should consider a mistake a mere data point in the ongoing experiment of human discovery’…all while smiling victoriously and tapping his pen on the desk. 

Normally she was a champion of self-restraint…her profession demanded it, and over the course of her career there were only a handful of times she had, to put it bluntly, completely lost it.  But it had been a devastating (and bloody) few months.  And now Will was at least half-crazy, imprisoned, and about to be on trial for _mass murder,_ and this posturing blowhard _snake man_ was sitting free and cheerful, with everything in his life falling into place.  Well, except for the kidney and…anyway the point is:  he had blood on his hands, too.  If Will was going to prison, Chilton should be right there with him. But he just sat there in his stupid chair, just so pleased with himself for all the profiting he stood to do over death and suffering…

And so, she let him have it.  Full-scale, stood up, leaned in, hands on his desk, staring right into his face.  It started with “You smug _prick_ …” and only got more colorful from there.  It came pouring out of her, years of pent-up anger, disdain, disgust, while he sat wide-eyed in surprise, that stupid pen still dangling limply in his fingers.

 

“Well…” he said casually.  “That seemed _cathartic_ for you, Dr Bloom.  For both of us, really.  Make no mistake, I may appear to be sitting high right now, but the last few months have hardly been kind to me, either.  Would you really begrudge a wounded man his…small consolations?”

Alana wanted to explode

“Will Graham is not a ‘consolation’, he is a **human being.**  What kind of doctor are you?!  How can you treat your own _patients_ like commodities, to…repackage and…experiment on…how can you look at everything you’ve done, all the harm and pain and _misery_ its caused. People and their families! People you KNEW.  How can you look at Will and not see all of the tragedy and death and…how can you pretend this is something anyone can ‘win’?  How can you just recuse yourself of any culpability? How do you not _feel_ for anyone who’s been…damaged?  Do you have any empathy for _anyone?_ ”

There were tears in her eyes, but Alana couldn’t bring herself to feel embarrassed.  Those tears were proof that she had a heart—that she was a human being who could feel for other beings, and this made her a far stronger and more decent person than Dr Chilton could ever hope to be—and a better doctor.  She couldn’t care any less what it would make him think of her, and she wondered why she’d ever felt otherwise.

Alana sat back down, breathing deeply.  Chilton, meanwhile, was frozen in place, lips pursed in obvious discomfort.  In fact, he seemed more uncomfortable now than when she was screaming profanity at him.

 _Oh look_ , Alana thought to herself. _Another ‘gentleman of intellect’ who can’t handle it when a person has **feelings** in front of them._

He watched her cautiously, and when he seemed satisfied that her emotions had, eh, _settled_ , he clicked his tongue and cleared his throat…anxious to regain the more ‘professional’ tone from earlier.  He couldn’t quite meet her eyes, but he did seem cowed.  Good.

“I freely acknowledge that I—at one point, in the _past_ —employed methods that are unethical, Dr. Bloom, and that in retrospect they were inhumane and that I overstated their…efficacy.  But at this this point I feel justified in saying that I have an _intimate_ understanding of how devastating their impact can be, and in my case, absolutely were.”

Alana sniffed.

“So that’s what it took?  Not the emotional anguish of your patients, not the death of your employees—of your colleagues?  It took something horrible happening to **you** before you could admit what you were doing?”

He paused. 

“Well…me and Will Graham”

They sat for a moment in silence, the bad blood of the past hanging heavy in the air.  Alana scanned around the room for…what, exactly?  Just something less uncomfortable to look at.  Rows of books with dry medical titles, a window overlooking the unnervingly pleasant front gardens of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

When the awkwardness became too much, she turned back to excuse herself.

But Dr Chilton’s expression had softened, in a way that she’d never seen before.  Smug detachment had given way to downcast eyes and furrowed brow, mouth tightly drawn.  He was staring at a small ornate clock on his desk, his right hand tracing the length an expensive looking pen.  She noticed his hands:  nails worn down, cuticles ragged.  She paused, watching him worry the skin of his right index finger with his thumb.  Nervous habits.  When he opened his mouth to speak again, he did not raise his head. 

“You have made it quite clear what you think of me, and I can’t particularly blame you.  I make no honest excuses for my part in all of this.  For what it’s worth, that includes trying to deflect the blame for Dr Gideon off of myself, and onto you.  I could explain my reasons—not all of which are blind ambition—but you are as experienced at decoding the motivations of human beings as I am.  Possibly more so.  With everything that has happened, I am certain that any explanation I could give you would only sound like a trite appeal for pity.  That is not something that I want from you…or anyone.  I don’t generally care how I am personally regarded, but that doesn’t mean I am _aware_ of my reputation. 

“And what reputation are you ‘aware’ of?” She shot back.

“That I’m only superficially personable,” He said dismissively.   “That I’m arrogant, jealous, condescending and vastly more interested in advancing my career than in helping the patients who are in my care.  And I believe someone once described as ‘creepy’.”

He huffed derisively at the notion, but then his face became softer, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter.  Still reserved and slightly distant (perhaps guarded?) but Alana marveled:  For the first time in all of their years of acquaintance, Dr Frederick Chilton sounded almost _contrite_.

“Have I gotten everything, Doctor Bloom?  Any other you may have missed in your…earlier comments?”

Alana blinked. 

“N-no.  I think that…covers it”

“Mm.  I thought so.  As I said, I’m not concerned with whether or not I’m _liked,_ but…”

He hesitated, then his face turned upwards and Alana found herself eye to eye with a man who looked very much like Frederick Chilton, but smaller.  Tenuous and uncertain.  Alana realized with dismay:  he looked *wounded*.

“I know the name of every person who works in this facility.  I don’t _like_ all of them, I’m not particularly friendly with most, but I do know who they are.  I would like to know why you think I’m so utterly heartless that I wouldn’t care when my own staff are tortured, murdered and dismembered.  And my own _*peers*_?  Colleagues that, in some cases, I not only respected but considered friends.  Dr Carruthers, for example.  Then and now you talk as if I went home those nights completely unaffected, with a clear conscience and an undisturbed night’s rest.

“But I didn’t.  Not then, and certainly not now.”

He looked back down to his clock, biting at his lip like a nervous child waiting to be scolded.

Alana was completely taken aback, as a dull pang of guilt rose from her stomach.  For years she’d made idle assessments of Dr Chilton.  It was a kind of game she played, to take the sting off of their infrequent but usually infuriating meetings.  Sometimes she’d decide he was just a regular compensation-motivated asshole, other times a deeply repressed homosexual, and recently she’d been entertaining the idea that he might even be a true clinical psychopath.  What she realized now, is that whatever misdeeds he may be guilty of, no matter how supremely distasteful she found him, he wasn’t a psychopath…he was a trauma victim.  She’d been horrified when she heard the news, but it didn’t stop a tiny voice saying ‘he should consider himself lucky, after what he’s done’. It wasn’t until now that the full emotional weight sank in:  he had been abducted, tortured, mutilated and left as a present for a mass murderer.  This brought a flood of other realizations:  he was almost certainly someone’s patient.  In other circumstances, he could have been *hers*.  He could be experiencing post-traumatic episodes, panic attacks, dissociation…and then the physical rehabilitation, adjusting to organ loss and…god knows whatever else.  Almost automatically, she wondered about professional and family support…did she know the doctors?  Does he even _have_ family?  Then she remembered that day in the stairwell.  “That’s not all he got out of you”.  It seemed to roll right off of him, but still…she’d never have said that to anyone else.  Not even the man who tried to kill her.

“I’m sorry that I doubted your…”

The proper words failed.

“Basic…human decency.  I mean that.” 

And she did.  Still, she couldn’t let go of those few days, of the crass boldness and cold detachment, of how he smarmed his way out of any responsibility for the gruesome murders of Abel Gideon.  She couldn’t resist one last rejoinder:

 “But in my defense, you did tell me—to my face, if you remember—that your conscience  was completely clear.”

Chilton looked up briefly, caught her eye again, and immediately looked away.

“Dr Bloom, we have one another for…7 years?  And in that time you have _never_ trusted me, for even a single day; not my intentions, not my judgement, and certainly not my words.  Of all the times you could have chosen to make an exception, that’s the one you chose? I find that very interesting,” he sniffed.

Alana narrowed her eyes.

“You’ve been through an awful lot lately, and I know firsthand how that can jar the mind out of perspective.  It may be wise for you to review some of the fundamentals of cognitive bias.  One of my first published articles was a treatise on selective perception.  If you want a copy, just ask my secretary on your way out.

“I was barely in graduate school when I wrote it, so I’m certain you’d find it…accessible.”

Now she was truly was speechless.  She stared at him for a moment, her mouth hanging open.  If he was alone, no god-damn wonder.  Chilton loosed a small sigh, swallowed and then piped up:

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Dr Bloom, I’m afraid I have another appointment.”

The more vulnerable Chilton was gone, retracted back up into whatever armored chassis kept him at arm’s length from basic human connection.  His eyes were once again bright, yet impersonal, his smile forced, his general demeanor calling out “please leave”. 

“Thank you for stopping by, Dr Bloom.  I enjoyed our talk.  In spite of our tense history, I have always appreciated your… _candor_.”

Alana gratefully accepted the out.

“Of course, you must be very busy catching up.” She said with a thorn in her voice.  “Thank you for making the time to see me”

He remained seated, but his handshake was as firm and plastic as ever.

“Of course”

…and his smirk just as smarmy and irritating.

As she walked down the pathway to the parking lot, Alana shook her head slowly back and forth.  It was a good thing, she decided, to have seen that side of him.  It was good to occasionally be reminded that even those you can’t stand are still human beings, with their own fears and internal lives.  This was satisfying enough to let go of the irritation.  If it was good for her, then she didn’t have to like it.  She felt a small twinge of guilt for pushing back against his “confession” while he was so obviously exposed.

“No, that was okay,”  she thought.  “He is definitely a trauma victim, and I should absolutely have sympathy for all of the horror he has experienced. 

All of that can be true…it doesn’t mean he can’t _also_ be an asshole”


End file.
